unmistakably hers
by sablize
Summary: Her voice is breathless and broken and hollow but there is no mistaking it. "Dean?"


**Title:** unmistakably hers

**Spoilers:** The end of season 3 and the beginning of season 4. If that's really still considered spoilers.

**Pairing:** Dean/Bela

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**A/N:** Posting this against my better judgment because I haven't written anything in a while. And because while I do love Dean/Cas, secretly Dean/Bela owns my soul. My first Supernatural fic, written on a burst of inspiration and renewed love for this ship at two in the morning. Takes place sometime after season 3. Hope you like!

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><p>It's a Tuesday night when his phone rings, and he has no idea who it is.<p>

(Well, that might be a lie. Because somewhere in the back of his mind, he—vaguely—recognizes the number, but he deleted it from his contacts long ago and its showing up now frightens him just slightly)

Regardless, it rings five times until, heart racing, far too aware of Sam's eyes burning holes into the back of his neck, gravity decides to function and he finally presses the button. Raising the phone to his ear delicately, he takes a (shaky) breath and says, "Hello?"

Her voice is breathless and broken and hollow but there is no mistaking it. "Dean?"

"Bela," is the only thing he can think to say. He hears Sam draw a sharp breath of surprise behind him and can practically see the confusion that's sure to be plastered all over his brother's face. However, he doesn't turn around, but leans further over the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, straining to hear her voice through the crackle of static.

"Oh my god, you answered," (she lets out a choked sort of noise and he realizes she's sobbing) "Dean, I—"

"Where are you?" The words leap from his mouth unbidden and for a second he wishes he could take them back—isn't he supposed to hate the bitch?—but it's partly overwhelmed by pity and partly because he wishes someone had been there for _him_ to call when he'd crawled out of a grave (and he's just going to assume that's what happened, because there is no other way she could be here, now, talking to him, unless maybe she was a part of his memories come back to life).

She sniffles, once, (_sounds real enough_) and her voice becomes slightly steadier, as if she's trying to adopt her old, business-like tone but not quite managing it. "I don't know, in a forest somewhere. Probably around the same place I—I… died."

"Okay, uh…"

(why why why is he doing this)

"Is there a road nearby?"

The connection fills suddenly with static but he manages to catch her faint: "Yes." Then, "Interstate 90, I think, I don't _know_—Dean—"

"Alright, alright, just calm down." He checks his watch. Midnight. Luckily, he and Sam are close by in New York, working in a small town on an easy job that his brother can finish up himself if need be. So Dean sighs heavily, resigned to his fate even though he's not quite sure (lie, lie) why he's doing it in the first place. "I'll be there in three hours."

(He hangs up before she can say anything else because he knows, he _knows_ why he's doing this and he doesn't want to hear her thanks because he doesn't deserve it)

"What the hell was that about?"

Sam's voice startles him and he blurts out, unnecessarily, "Bela's alive." He stands and grabs his keys from the nightstand, nerve starting to slip away, her voice already sounding like a ghost in his ear.

His brother stands, too, skepticism written all over his face. "So, what, you're going to pick her up or something?"

"Yep."

"But, Dean, you _hate_ Bela."

"Yeah, well," (he avoids Sam's eyes now) "she sounded pretty freaked out and we're close by. And," he adds, because Sam looks like he wants to interrupt, "once we're done with this case, we'll just drive her back to her apartment in Queens, and maybe she'll be so indebted to us that she'll leave us alone forever. A guy can dream, right?"

As his brother absorbs this, Dean takes the opportunity to leave and shoots him a cheeky grin, then says, "See you in six hours," and bolts out the door.

(Deep down he knows _exactly_ why he's doing this: because he can still feel her blood on his skin and her screams still echo in his head and it _haunts_ him, but he shoves the sensation away and forces it into a tight ball that falls to the pit of his stomach and makes him walk faster, drive faster, to escape it)

He leaves the music off for once, because the steady rumble of the road beneath him helps clear his head, helps ease the ache of the untouched memories that he cannot (_will not_, damnit, he will _not_) indulge in. He knows his head should be full of questions—who raised her? Angel, or demon? _Why_?—but there is nothing but a constant mantra of: _find Bela, find Bela, find Bela_. It's not what he's used to, but it calms him. He just focuses on the road ahead and drives as fast as he dares.

He reaches Erie at three thirty, just as it starts to drizzle; at the first sign of a forest—quite a big one, unfortunately—he pulls over and steps out of the Impala. The road is deserted in both directions and nothing moves in the darkness of the woods. He groans. _This is going to be harder than I thought_.

"_Bela!_" he calls, stepping onto the damp grass. "Damnit… _Bela!_"

It's a good five minutes of this before he finally gets a response: a very weak, "Dean…?" from the trees on his right, slightly behind him. He whirls around, and there she is, clinging to a tree, clothes torn and bloodstained, fear and relief written in equal measures across her face.

They meet somewhere in the middle, and she half-stumbles, half-flings herself towards him, clutching at his shirt with fingers so cold he can feel them through the fabric. She presses her face to his chest, and he can feel her hot tears mingling with the chill of the rain.

"You came," she chokes out at last, and it (almost) breaks his heart.

He's not good with sappy emotional stuff but he tries his best, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and tugging her closer, and says, simply, "Yeah. I did."

He wonders if she's remembering what he's remembering. Because now the memories are coming up vivid before his eyes and he squeezes them shut, trying to swallow them down, but he can't get her screams out of his ears.

(though he's not sure he ever will)

For now, though, he wills them away, draws back from the girl clutching at his chest, and says, "Come on, let's get out of here."

He keeps an arm around her as they start back towards his car. Now that he's got her at last, the questions are whirling in his head, but he doesn't ask them because he doubts she has the answers, and she's still so shaken up that he doubts he could get anything coherent out of her, anyways. So he guides her through the rain to his headlights shining in the distance, because that's all he can do.

She slides into the passenger seat with a hint of her old elegance, sighing and wiping her eyes with newfound weariness. She glances at him as he starts the car—he's trying to_ not_ avoid her eyes, but he still can't make himself look at her, not now—and she says, "Thank you."

_Now_ he has to look at her. Her eyes are filled with sincerity, which startles him (but he's not drowning in memories like he thought he would be, so maybe it's a start). At last he manages a smile and a, "Yeah, don't mention it," and peals out onto the highway.

Eventually, she lies down on the seat, curled up in a ball, and her breathing slows into the steady rhythm of sleep. He allows himself a few glances when he can get away with it, to check that she's still breathing and noting with pity the large rips and tears in her shirt and the accompanying blood stains, no doubt made from the hellhounds.

He's trying hard to stay in the present, so he wonders how she got in the woods and figures one freaked-out motel employee had dumped her there. The thought makes him sad but he doesn't know why, because he's supposed to hate Bela Talbot. Not pity her and drive three hours at twelve in the morning to pick her up after someone supposedly raised her from the dead. Not comfort her while she cried into his shirt. Not—god forbid—let her sit in the passenger seat of the Impala as he drove her home.

So caught up in his thoughts, it takes him a while to realize that she's leaning on his arm, fingers resting lightly on top of his own where they lay at his side.

(needless to say, he's rather surprised. And maybe slightly, slightly pleased)

In a moment of impulse, he takes her hand and squeezes it gently, a tiny, soft smile on his face, and turns his attention back to the road.

Maybe he doesn't have to hate her _all_ the time.


End file.
